


Steak (and No Blowjobs) Day

by threewalls



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Coming Out, Community: trope_bingo, F/F, Future Fic, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after they saved the world at Cartagena, Root is still tapping Shaw for side-missions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steak (and No Blowjobs) Day

**Author's Note:**

> For "coming out" for trope bingo. With thanks to Mec; any remaining typos are all on me.

Shaw is ready in forty minutes, and most of that is styling her hair. Her hair was shorter in the Marines. No one put her in something with spaghetti straps in the Marines, black and tight to the hem halfway down her thighs.

The dress came with a card, only signed with a ;) but that's enough. Shaw checked in less than two hours ago, a treat and a whim when it looked like she'd have a day between numbers. It's a short list of people who could find her here and Harold would have rung before sending her a complete outfit from tailored coat through to uncomfortably accurately fitted underwear.

The card said to be ready in an hour. Forty minutes after it arrives, the moment Shaw pauses to check herself over one last time in the hotel room mirror, she gets a text telling her that her ride is outside.

"You're not wearing stockings, are you?" is the first thing Root asks. 

Her dress is a deep purple, cowl neck and ankle-length, more fabric in her skirt than Shaw has on her entire body. Her hair is down.

"Or any of those nylon sock things?"

The car has a driver and a partition that divides them from her earshot. Shaw prefers to drive, but not in a dress like this. A dress like this, her hair like this, wants a car like this with deep, soft, leather seats. Shaw's arm candy for this one, or bodyguard dressed as arm candy. 

When she woke up in Cartagena after sleeping for sixteen hours, after they'd saved the world, someone had left an aqua string bikini in Shaw's size with the concierge. Root was (allegedly) half an ocean away, flying business class. Her reply to Shaw's accusation was a grainy security camera still of Shaw with her hair dripping wet by the side of the pool.

"No stockings," Shaw says, and doesn't retort that Root didn't send stockings with these stiletto heels, because Root is probably looking for the excuse to beam down at Shaw's bare legs.

The place they go is so exclusive the name wouldn't have meant anything to Shaw. If this place has a name. Root swipes an electronic pass card in the elevator instead of pressing a button for a floor. The maitre d' calls Root "Ms. Hopper," and Root simpers about how delighted she is that they called her when they had a cancellation.

So, they have a reservation. Shaw has her smile for civilians as she surrenders her coat, and walks a pace and a half behind Root to their table.

It's silver service, stiff white tablecloths and black tie waiters. Waitresses, though all in pants, not skirts. String quartet, all women. Everyone here, staff and seated customers, is a woman. Shaw doesn't have to turn her head to count three couples holding hands across the intimately sized tables. 

Shaw pretends she can't hear her own stomach. Arm candy doesn't get a menu, apparently, and Root's just sent their waitress away again without even ordering drinks.

Root leans across the table, her cowl-neckline gaping like the distraction she knows it is. "Slip your shoes off under the table."

"Buy me a steak, and maybe I'll think about playing footsie."

Root cocks her head sideways, a closed-mouth smile that's all in her cheeks, and Shaw knows that this is the part of the evening that's on company time. 

"Okay," Shaw says, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. "Done. And?"

"The table at two o'clock." Root frowns momentarily over Shaw's left shoulder, before aiming her smile back at Shaw. "Your two o'clock," she corrects. "See anything interesting?"

Across the room, a waitress is lighting the candles on a birthday cake at a table with just two middle-aged women. The taller of the two women is slouching down into the booth, ducking her head. Shaw'd put money on her being the birthday girl.

When birthday girl hands over her smartphone to the waitress, Shaw mouths, "waitress," before sliding out of her chair. 

"Leave your purse." 

"But--" Shaw's dress doesn't allow her to carry concealed.

"Try to be discreet," Root says. "Or we'll never get to order."

The stalemate conversation is still going when Shaw strolls past, setting up in earshot out waitress's line of sight.

According to the cake, birthday girl is "Stephanie" and this is her fiftieth. Stephanie's friend is asking the waitress for the phone back, politely in the way that sounds halfway between confusion and begging. Waitress cajoles that an occasion like this deserves a picture, don't they want one, dressed up so pretty tonight?

Shaw can't see waitress's expression, only her back. The candles have melted pools of white wax onto the cake.

Stephanie's shoulders jump at "pretty," and Shaw's ready to make a play for the phone but then Stephanie squares them, looking up from under her bangs and mumbles: "just one." 

They smile for one flash, only the square polished teeth for Stephanie, for another flash, waitress turning smoothly with the second, striding off with Stephanie's phone still in her hand. 

She isn't expecting Shaw to pluck the phone from her hand.

"What?" Shaw asks. "It's not yours, either."

Waitress lunges for Shaw, for the phone, which Shaw pushes into her cleavage to have hands free. No formal training but desperate is clearly desperate; Shaw has her own handicap, trying to be _discreet_. 

She sprints for the washroom, pushing through both doors. 

"Why protect _him_? What kind of lesbian are you?" 

Shaw is the kind with a high pain tolerance and more interesting ways to chase down endorphins than fucking. She's a lesbian with an Axis II personality disorder and she still manages to call women by the names they choose.

The washroom has cubicles for hiding unconscious bodies, and a mirror for Shaw to check herself, splash cold water on her face, before walking out into restaurant security.

Security's amazons take the phone from Shaw and escort her to the maitre d', who is apologising profusely to Stephanie.

"Oh, she's mine," Root says. She's carrying Shaw's heels. 

"And who are you?" Stephanie's friend asks. 

Stephanie hasn't stopped clutching her purse since security handed back her phone. Hasn't spoken, either. Shaw has an eye on her for when she breaks.

"Private investigator. Adeline Hopper. And I can tell you this wasn't actually personal."

Root drops down to place Shaw's heels in front of her feet. Shaw fantasises about kneeing Root's broad grin, but this is a play, this is Root making Shaw look harmless. She uses Root's arm to steady herself as she slides her shoes back on.

"If that's any consolation," Root continues. "Someone decided that you, Stephanie, were the weakest link in the security about--" 

Shaw only hears the pause because she's listening for it. Root could be the world's most accomplished con artist. Instead, she's pulling jobs like this.

"Bluebell. So whatever convictions made Ann a good target for them, she was promised a payout that would have left her a lot of time to find a new job."

"Ann's fired," the maitre d' affirms; "we welcome all women here." That's when Stephanie finally bursts into tears.

Their completely inoffensive waitress sets a steak in front of Shaw just as she's smoothing her napkin across her lap. Cutting through, it bleeds just right. 

"How is it?" Root asks. "This place doesn't get many Yelp reviews."

She only has a glass of the red they're apparently sharing, and she's watching Shaw like she's another one of the cameras. Half of Shaw's steak is already gone.

"This is a date," Shaw accuses.

"Would you like it to be?"

Shaw puts her fork down, rinses her palate with wine.

"I don't do hearts and flowers."

Root is about to open her mouth, but Shaw continues: "Before you start reciting my sexual history, think about who has a steak knife."

Root just smiles and touches her finger to her lip, already turning to meet Stephanie's new waitress.

"Oh, we'd love some cake-- or I would, what about you, Carmen?"

Shaw passes on the birthday cake, but she pulls her face into a normal-person smile, nodding in acknowledgement at the ladies across the room.

Stephanie still looks weepy, but she's redone her make-up. Guess that means they got Ann out of the ladies' washroom already.

"What I was going to say is: don't worry, I don't do bodies." 

Root makes a noise of pleasure around her first mouthful of cake, and then sighs.

"No, that's not true. This cake is the most wonderful thing I've put in my mouth all month."

She leans forward, raising her fork to lick the icing and crumbs off the tines, and says: "What I mean is that I don't do sex. I'm not jealous of your dungeon mistresses."

Shaw is willing to let that comment go with only a perfunctory shake of her knife. The steak is _very_ good here.

"But wouldn't you agree, Shaw, that I can still show you a good time?"


End file.
